


Safety

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, Magic, Modern Era, Polyamory, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos runs a safe house, France is at war, there's a resistance. There's plotting and gardening, but mostly it's about the safe house :)  </p><p>I have watched series three and draw on it, so SPOILERS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: grief, some violence, fire, explosions, torture, non-main character death (cannon)
> 
> WARNINGS apply to the entire fic
> 
> On reflection, I removed the whipping that I had included.
> 
> Also this might be falling into tropes of othering poc, and maybe the elemental thing is kinda racist too (Porthos has elemental magic that is connected to emotional handwavyness).

Athos approaches the house through the back, on foot, d’Artagnan dragging behind him with exhaustion. Athos is tired too, though he is uninjured. He is feeling trepidation. Last time he was here, there was no electricity, the roof was leaking, and the whole thing was about half a second and a stiff wind away from falling down. He can’t see much, in the dark, but there are no lights. He sighs and lifts the latch to the back door. Then, he can’t quite tell why, he hesitates. He pulls the door slowly open and stays very, very still, watching the darkness. On the other side of the threshold, in the shadows, is someone else standing very very still. Someone with a gun. 

Athos moves swiftly, arm coming up to dislodge the weapon. It flies out of his attacker’s hand, and Athos takes advantage, shoving until the other body hits a solid wall. There’s a clatter as something topples down and the other person grunts. Athos relaxes, and finds himself flat on his back, pinned. 

“Hello Porthos,” d’Artagnan says, voice hoarse, leaning in the doorway. 

“Oh, Charlie!” Porthos says, getting off Athos and pulling d’Artagnan into a hug, into the house, shutting the door behind him. 

Porthos shifts, and then they’re flooded with light. Athos squints, too used to the dark to be able to see much beyond shapes. 

“Thanks for blinding us,” d’Artagnan grumbles. “Oi, what are you doing?”

“You’re hurt,” Porthos says. 

Athos’ eyes adjust enough that he can make out Porthos stripping d’Artagnan of coat, jumper, and shirt. d’Artagnan struggles a little, but a second later he’s half-naked, Porthos examining his ribs and side. Porthos tuts a little and pulls until d’Artagnan stumbles forwards. Athos gets off the floor and follows them, as Porthos leads them through a dark hallway, flicking the light back off. 

Athos trips and feels his way through, and then the hall is lit by a door at the end, Porthos and d’Artagnan passing through. Athos follows, into the kitchen. It’s warm, and there’s a table, a seating area with soft chairs by the window at the end, an Aga. There’s obviously electricity. There are blackouts over all the windows, which explains the darkness from outside. Athos looks around, bewildered, too tired to try and understand everything. 

He’s pressed into a chair at the table, and a bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, and a mug of something warm and sweet is set before him. Porthos orders him to eat and drink, and gives him water as well. Athos tucks in, watching as d’Artagnan eats a similar meal, Porthos sat at his side cleaning the gash and sticking a gauze over it, poking and prodding at the probably-broken-ribs. When he’s done, and d’Artagnan has stopped cursing him, Porthos sits back with a satisfied grunt. 

“One’s fractured, otherwise just bruises I think,” Porthos says. “Slight infection, but that’s expected because you two are useless at looking after yourselves. Why are you here?”

“Lying low,” Athos says. 

d’Artagnan opens his mouth to give more information, then shuts it with a guilty, sideways look. Porthos waves it away. 

“How are you?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Shut up,” Porthos says. “You done eating? Bed, then. For both of you.”

“Can I sleep with you?” d’Artagnan asks Athos, wincing a little. 

He’s been having nightmares, Athos knows. Athos had been hoping that he’d get to sleep with Porthos, but he nods. They need a few weeks without anyone seeing them, so he’ll have a chance. Porthos shows them to a big double room, and d’Artagnan falls face first onto the bed, grunting in pain. Porthos rolls him onto his good side and gets his shoes and socks and trousers off, then gets him under the covers. Athos waits until Porthos decides d’Artagnan is comfy, then gets himself undressed and climbs in next to d’Artagnan. They both fall asleep almost at once. 

Athos wakes to d’Artagnan’s whimpers, in what is becoming a tiring routine. He’s halfway up before he realises that Porthos is already there, voice low and gentle. Athos curls up again and goes back to sleep, drifting off to Porthos’ soothing. He wakes once or twice more, but each time Porthos is there, and d’Artagnan doesn’t need him. When he finally wakes up properly, d’Artagnan’s still there, but Porthos has vanished. 

Athos gets up and wanders through the rooms upstairs, curiosity nudging him. Porthos has fixed the roof and the electricity. There’s also hot running water, and a shower, both of which are new. There’s some pictures on the walls and rugs on the floors, and the place looks lives in, though the rooms are ready for guests and clean and tidy. Athos finds Porthos’ room up in the attic, the only one with no blackout over the windows. Porthos isn’t there, and the bed looks unslept in. 

Downstairs is less interesting. Mostly a series of rooms set up as offices, two living rooms, a kitchenette, the big kitchen. There are strawberries and cherries on the kitchen-table. Athos pops one of each into his mouth, then wanders onwards. He finds Porthos in the back garden, digging potatoes up. There’s a basket full of greens already, on the path behind him. 

“Morning,” Athos says. 

“Afternoon, really. It’s twelve thirty,” Porthos says. “Them blackouts’ll fuck with your internal clock.”

“Is that why you have none in your room?”

“Been nosing about, have you? No, I didn’t want ‘em. I just keep the lights off. There aren’t any lights in there, actually, so I don’t put them on by accident, and it’s not like there’s a hall to let light in from.”

“You climb up that ladder in the dark? You shut the trapdoor?”

“Feels safe,” Porthos says. “I’m used to it. I can move, if you want. There’s plenty of space.”

“You’ve done wonders with the place,” Athos says. 

Porthos grunts, bending to pull up a potato plant. It not until he bends that Athos can see the way he has to move around his injured shoulder and side. He can see the loss of balance, too, in the way Porthos holds the fork. When he straightens, there’s a moment of swaying and re-centering, just a brief flash. Then Porthos is dropping the potatoes into a box and moving on to dig up the next. 

“Want a hand?” Athos asks. 

“Nah. I’ve got it. Just doing it for us, today. I sent stuff out on Monday, just for the house now. I’m nearly done.”

“People know you live here? Locally, I mean,” Athos says. 

“Yeah, I get milk and cheese from the local farm, and flour from the village. They see me out doing the garden, and in the fields, too. Most houses around here black out, for safety from strangers, and just in case a stray plane flies over, so that don’t make me stand out any. Not likely to bomb us, now that they’ve essentially won, but it’s sort of ingrained.”

“Any trouble?”

“Not really. Had a couple of mages come through, last harvest. Pretended to be here to help out, but nicked a lot of stuff. Couple of looters, mostly desperate city folk. Couple of scared Jinxes, and I’ve had a pretty steady stream of witches hiding out here.”

Athos nods. Most of the witches are either fleeing to safer countries as refugees, or going underground and working with the resistance. They’ve been pretty successful recruiting since the laws labelling all women ‘witches’ instead of mages, and refusing education and rights, have come in. Athos hasn’t seen a Jinx in a long time, though. That interests him. Treville’s been trying to recruit one or two. Powerful elementals, Jinxes tended towards secrecy, and Treville’s not had much luck. 

“Any attention from your own spells?” Athos says. 

“Eh?”

“The blackouts. No blackout is that effective. And the warm. You didn’t put underfloor heating in, but the wood is warm. And the paintings. I can recognise your style in them, and I know you use magic when you draw.”

“It’s cheating, don’t tell,” Porthos says. “Right, that’s enough potatoes. You know, if we ever win, I’m never eating a potato again.”

“And if we lose?”

“Then I will be dead and it won’t matter,” Porthos growls. Then he shakes himself. “You can bring the potatoes, I’ll carry the greens. d’Artagnan up yet?”

“Not when I came out,” Athos says, lifting the box into his arms. 

They go back to the kitchen, and Porthos puts the kettle on and starts stowing the food in a larder. Athos sits, watching, wondering how long it’ll be before Porthos assigns them chores. Probably not long, though he’d guess Porthos gets pretty bored out here, and likes to be busy. Porthos pulls out a couple of spice jars, and a packet of what looks like coffee. He mixes things together, using a pestle and mortar, muttering. Little puffs of colour rise from the bowl, with the spells. Porthos tips the entire thing into a coffee pot, and pours in the water. Porthos whispers and flicks his fingers, and the house fills with the smell. 

“That’ll get him down here,” Athos says. “That can’t be real coffee.”

“Mm hmm. Refugee family came through, exchanged it for some ready cash and a connection. I thought it’d come in handy. You’d be surprised how many people who can’t be bought for love or money will give up the moon for a cup of this.”

Athos is pretty sure he’d be less surprised than Porthos thinks. He’s had Porthos’ cooking before. He counts the hot drinks Porthos prepares both as cooking and as healing-magic. Aramis always bottles up as much as he can, and tries to recreate them in the field, saying they have amazing properties. Porthos seems to have a knack of finding something soothing, or warming, or quieting. Whatever people need. 

d’Artagnan comes down, still naked but for his pants, and makes little clucking noises, tucking himself in against Porthos. Porthos pats his hair and provides him with coffee, and d’Artagnan goes to curl in one of the arm chairs by the window. The blackout is down, there, and they can look out. Porthos sets a second mug in front of Athos, then goes about serving fruit and milk and oats into three bowls. 

“It’s nothing special,” Porthos says, giving them their breakfast. “I can do toast and I have eggs, so I can do eggy bread, but this is good and filling and it’s decidedly not porridge. It’ll keep you running through till lunch, which is good. We have a bit of work to be doing.”

“Work?” d’Artagnan says, sounding grumpy. 

“Yeah. You two should stick to inside, mostly, so it’s nothing laborious, don’t worry. ‘specially not with them ribs. I get a lot of paperwork and correspondence through, bits of intelligence and so on, and I’ve fallen a bit behind. I’m gonna set you up with some office space, d’Artagnan, and you can go through and decide what stuff to send on, answer letters, that sort of thing.”

d’Artagnan groans. Then he sips his coffee, and groans again, in an entirely different way. Athos tries his own drink, and lets out a huff of pleasure, closing his eyes to savour it. When he opens them again, there’s a pleased little grin playing around Porthos’ mouth. 

“What about me?” Athos asks. “What am I to do?”

“Got a bit of busy work, for today. I didn’t expect you, or I’d have thought how to best make use of you. I had a think last night, though, and I reckon you could do a good bit of clearing in the cellars. They cover the entire house, under there, but they’re full of crap. Sorting it into boxes and putting it in the hall for me to take out to the dump would be very helpful. The entrance to them cellars is hidden, it’ll be really useful to have them a bit more hospitable.”

“Yay,” Athos says. “What about you?”

“Got to go into the village, show me face, see a couple of people who have asked for a hand with their land, and there’s two people who’re more or less ready to give birth, but no medical aid for miles and miles. I’ve been playing doctor.”

“You are busy,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Then I’ll come back for lunch, and this afternoon I’ve got a couple of drops to ride around to, pick up some packages. Expecting a few things I’ll need to pass on. Then I’ve got to record a list of names to broadcast. I just do two hours twice a week. We split up the radio across the safe houses, now, so it’s harder to pin down and won’t get found. I go up to the barn to do that. Then I’ll come back and cook you two dinner, and then you can clock off and do what you like.”

“What do you do, while we’re clocking off?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Usually what you’re going to be doing today. Tonight I’ll be going over some things for Treville, though, and setting up a contact for Aramis, who needs supplies. Either of you seen ‘im recent? I just get short codes asking for stuff.”

“We worked with him, before this job,” Athos says. 

“Tell me?” Porthos says. 

“He’s alright,” Athos says. “Stretched. Tired. Probably needs a rest, but thinks the world is on his shoulders. Still trying to repent for getting you hurt.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “I forgave him that. Wish he’d work on forgiving himself, instead of punishing himself. Hindsight is twenty twenty. He mightn’t have made the best choices, but his son was involved, and Anne. Wish he’d come stay with me a bit, too. I miss him.”

“More than you miss us?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Would you miss working with Athos more’n you’d miss me or Aramis?” Porthos asks, sharper than is perhaps kind. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just, yeah, course I miss him more. I also know he’s alone, no one watching his back. Fuck, look at what a mess you two are, and you’ve got each other.”

“Sorry, Porthos,” d’Artagnan says. “I was trying to be playful.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have much of a sense of humour these days. Look, Athos, you’ve wandered around, right? The office with the blue walls, that’s got all the paperwork in. Correspondence ends up either filed there, or, if I haven’t got to it yet, in the crate in the hall. There’s boxes and things in the cellar already. Torches and cleaning stuff in the cupboard in the hall, where the post is. Can you get yourselves sorted?”

“We’ll be fine,” Athos says. 

Porthos nods, drinks the milk out of his bowl, and gets up. He leaves his dishes in the sink, and Athos makes a note to do them before Porthos gets back. He has a vague memory of Porthos doing them last night, which, it being Porthos, is probably a routine. Porthos starts to leave, but Athos calls him back. 

“What?” Porthos asks, turning but not coming in. Athos gets up and touches his cheek. “Go on, then.”

Athos kisses him, closing his eyes, sinking into it. It’s been so long. Porthos makes a strangled noise and wraps Athos in a tight hug, kissing him deeper, lifting him onto his tiptoes so they’re more of a height. They kiss for a long time, re-learning each other, clinging. 

“Are you going to fuck right there against the wall?” d’Artagnan asks, eventually, breaking them apart. 

“What’d I say about my sense of humour?” Porthos growls. 

“Right,” d’Artagnan says. “Blue office. I’m gone.”

Athos laughs. Porthos isn’t joking, though. There’s no lightness in him, anymore. Athos can see that. He cradles Porthos’ face and presses their foreheads together, just breathing with him, trying to force some quiet. Porthos shuts his eyes and bites back what might be a sob. 

“Hey, hey,” Athos says. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos says, sniffing, not crying. “I’m alright. Good to see you, Athos.”

“You too. I’m glad we were working close to here,” Athos says. 

“God.”

“Hold on, love. We’ll get our time together.”

“d’Artagnan. He’s… What happened to Constance, Ath? I heard from her, regular, then nothing, and then that letter from Charlie. Just telling me she’d gone.”

“There was an explosion, she was supposed to be-” Athos cuts himself off with a sigh. “You know what her job’s like, the magic she was using was so unstable. She’s alive, but she hasn’t woken up. We don’t know where she is, Treville thinks it’s safer if we keep away and neither of us will be able to, so we’re not allowed to know. Maybe… maybe you could…?”

“I’ve tried. I’ve been able to get nowhere near, not even any information. Just that she’s as good as dead, for us. I have feelers out, but half of one of my networks was wiped out in the crackdown on elemental magic.”

“Anyone noticed anything about yours?”

“No. I always use word. The garden grows a little better than it should, I can’t do anything about that. But it’s not enough to raise an eyebrow. Especially as I help out around the county, when people ask. Locals will keep it secret, if they work it out. Until the Reds start paying with coffee, anyway, I guess.”

“Was that a joke?”

“No,” Porthos says, face darkening. “No. Maybe. Maybe they won’t sell me for coffee, but I am a commodity. As long as I’m useful to them, they’ll keep their silence. Means I’ve got work to do, so I have to go.”

“Porthos,” Athos says, then he sighs. “Alright. Alright. You break my heart, sometimes.”

“Yeah. Mine’s not exactly intact.”

Porthos stands still a moment longer, then pulls away and bustles out of the house. Athos goes to check on d’Artagnan, then does the dishes before retreating to the cellar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: porthos gets tortured. He is using it to get information

d’Artagnan takes to life in the countryside. He ignores Porthos’ suggestion that he stay inside, and ignores Porthos’ suggestion that he take it easy. Every opportunity he sneaks out and gardens, or works in the field, or lies in the grass. Porthos gives up eventually and sets him tasks, and listens to his advice, and gives him projects. 

Athos takes over the paperwork side of things, and starts collating the random pieces of intelligence that pass through Porthos’ house, into proper reports. He codes them and sends them on to the next stop, from where they’ll eventually be forwarded to Treville or Anne. Porthos spends a fair amount of time away from the house, which makes Athos uneasy, especially when he realises that Porthos is establishing bits of a new network. 

Porthos comes home one evening with a black eye, about a week into their stay. He brings d’Artagnan inside with him, d’Artagnan complaining about being pulled away from his work. Athos gets called from the office. Porthos sits them at the table, gives them coffee to drink, and then fiddles with a piece of wood, using a kitchen knife to scrape the bark off. He sighs, eventually, and puts the distraction aside. 

“You’re gonna have to go. There’s a hayloft in the barn you can hide in. I need the house tonight,” Porthos says. 

“Tell us,” Athos demands. Porthos smiles, a flash of teeth, then shakes his head. “I got you disarmed and your air supply cut off with no problem. You’re out of practise.”

“I won,” Porthos says, looking affronted. 

“I recognised you,” Athos says, low, trying to make Porthos understand. 

“I don’t need that kind of thing, anyway,” Porthos says, waving his concern away. Athos pokes the bruise on his face. “Ow. Oi, leave off. This wasn’t that. Well, it was, but it was strategic. You gotta trust me, Ath. The less you know, the safer. These guys don’t fuck around. They think I’m alone, that’s necessary. I am not a threat. You two? Soldiers, ex SAS, a mage and a Knight? d’Artagnan is a name and face known all over the country, and de la Fere? Everyone knows if they meet you, they have no chance. Magic like yours? You are a threat.”

“All over the country, huh?” d’Artagnan says, grinning. 

“You know this,” Porthos says.. “Stop fishing for compliments. Take this serious, and listen to me. This is my job, this is what I do. I’m good at it. My network collapsed because of a new law, not because there was a weak point. Usually a link gets took out, the chain won’t break. I am really good at this. I know what I’m doing, I know how to play this. I’ve worked hard, I did my research. You two need to hide. Now. I haven’t got long.”

d’Artagnan nods, and Athos gives in grudgingly. They go to get sleeping bags and something for entertainment, warm clothes. As they troop out the back, Porthos stops Athos with a hand on his shoulder. 

“They spot you, you’re dead. I ain’t savin’ you. I don’t know you,” Porthos says, quiet and dangerous. 

“What are you talking about?” Athos says. 

“You’re gonna try sneaking around, to keep an eye. You’re choice, but I’m warning you of the consequences of that choice. If I could, I would stop you doing it, but I can’t. Wish you’d trust me to look after myself.”

“I do trust you. I just want to look after you, too.”

Porthos actually smiles at that, wide and warm and genuine, and rare these days. He huffs out an almost-laugh, and kisses Athos’ forehead. 

“I love that you do, and I promise to let you have at it. But tonight, I am meeting with Rochefort.”

Porthos shoves Athos out of the door before Athos can respond to that. Athos catches him nodding at d’Artagnan, and Athos doesn’t know when, but they’ve planned this: d’Artagnan grips his arm and drags him away to the barn. Athos curses, and spits, and tries to break free, but d’Artagnan doesn’t let go. In the hayloft he just sits on Athos until Athos calms himself down. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Athos promises, going limp. “I won’t do anything.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan says. He doesn’t move. 

“Damn it, d’Artagnan. Rochefort. You know what the man’s capable of.”

“Yep. I also know he’s trusted by Savoy, as far as Savoy trusts anyone.”

“It’s not worth Porthos’ well being!”

“It is, actually. But that’s beside the point. Trust him.”

Athos tries to escape again, then gives up, covering his eyes, trying to control the terror wringing through him. 

“I do, it’s not the point,” Athos whispers. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” d’Artagnan says. “Yeah. Me too.”

He lets Athos up, and the huddle shoulder to shoulder, miserable together. They hear a shot, and neither move, though they both start to pray. They pass muttered ‘trust him’s back and forth, trying to comfort each other. Pass quiet prayers back and forth. Reminding each other of words they gave up long ago. Words even Aramis rarely bothers with. A God no one can believe in anymore. 

It’s completely dark out, the moon a bare slither, the stars obscured by cloud, when the door to the barn is flung open. They both go stiff and still, quieting their breathing, trying to be invisible. There are footsteps, heavy, uneven. They walk to the middle of the barn, and then the person hums. It’s an amused sound.

“I think this will do, Belgard.”

Athos recognises Rochefort’s voice. He also recognises Porthos’ gait as Porthos joins Rochefort. 

“Do what you must, Rochefort.”

“Torture isn’t going to work, you know how to refuse to give information. I know who you are. No, I have something else in mind. Will you consent? Just a little bit of magic?”

“Go ahead. I told you, I’ll pay what you ask. This, though. This is the payment. I don’t pay twice for the same thing. Next time, you give me something new, or you get nothing.”

“Yes, yes. I understand.”

“Then, yeah, I’ll play. What do you want?”

“Bend down, like you saw.”

“Can’t. Your Cardinal took that from me.”

“Oh, did he? Kneel, then.”

Athos puts his hand in his mouth, bites down, and shuts his eyes. 

“Take your shirt off… oh, look at these scars. Someone did a very bad job of healing you, didn’t they? Was that your friend? How pleasing.”

“Yeah, he messed it up. Wouldn’t focus. Didn’t care enough,” Porthos says, voice rough with emotion. 

Athos reaches out and catches d’Artagnan, letting his hand go from his mouth to clap it over d’Artagnan’s, forcing him still and quiet. Athos presses his lips almost against d’Artagnan’s ear. 

“It’s not real,” he whispers, so softly. 

d’Artagnan manages to still himself. 

“Take your trousers off, too,” Rochefort says.

“No.”

“Fine, fine. This will do. I wish you had a visitor, make them do this, or watch. I don’t trust you or believe you, but I know how to make you tell me the truth. Let’s see… here. Twice, did we agree?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a… little. Hmm. Oh, interesting. These scars are deeper than they look. My Cardinal used magic, too.”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to answer my questions. Do you have anyone staying here? Do you use this as a safe house? Do you gather intelligence? Am I the only one giving you information?”

Rochefort murmurs a wordless, cruel laughter, and Athos feels the magic. Porthos cries out, afraid. Athos grabs d’Artagnan again, tears stinging his face. 

“No one’s staying, not a safe house, yes intelligence, you’re the only one now, the others were arrested, broke my network, my head. My head, it hurts. Too much. Can’t do it any more.”

“Good, good boy,” Rochefort says. “This is beautiful. No lies, though. This time I want to know if you have lied to me tonight, even once. And I want you to tell me how Aramis broke you.”

Another gust of magic. Athos squeezes his eyes shut, face wet with tears, as Porthos sobs, shouting in pain. He sounds so scared. 

“I haven’t lie- ahh!” The scream nearly makes Athos let d’Artagnan go. 

“That is a lie, boy,” Rochefort hisses. “Look at how your skin breaks on the lie. Your blood is red, beautiful.”

“I-I-I… it was only a little lie. When you came in, I told you I had no wine. No coffee. I have both. And I have a man, backup. A mile away. He’ll come in the morning to check. I told you I didn’t have any intelligence. Before the network collapsed, we got word.”

“What did you hear?” 

“Okay. Okay. We heard that Savoy- that Sav-Savoy, was planning on assassinating Louis. That he planned to kill the king!”

“Louis is not king. Is that all?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me about Aramis.”

“He took my trust, and broke it, and got me hurt, and didn’t care. He doesn’t dare face me. I hate him. I hate him.”

Rochefort laughs, and swaggers out. Porthos gets to his feet as soon as Rochefort is gone and snorts. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos whispers. 

Then he lets out a loud, dramatic sob, and limps heavily, slowly from the barn. Athos and d’Artagnan sit back against the wall, clutching each other's hands. They sit like that till morning, neither sleeping, neither relaxing. Athos is sure d’Artagnan is crying, at one point. He doesn’t say anything. 

When the sun comes up the doors are opened again, and they stiffen, but it’s Porthos alone, this time. He’s whistling, and walking fine. He puts the ladder for them, and Athos scrambles down, tugging Porthos’ shirt up to examine his back. There are red marks, but the skin isn't broken. There’s some bruising, but otherwise no traces. 

“Rochefort ain’t got no clue about elemental magic,” Porthos says, grinning. “An’ remember, I always played the dumb one, with Aramis. The dumb, violent brute, that was my part, and people believed it. I have no reputation for subtlety, nor magic. Rochefort was easy to play. He just wants my humiliation. It’s an easy price to pay for what he’ll give me.”

“His intelligence will be useless,” Athos snaps. 

“Not what I want him for. He’ll tell Savoy what we need.”

Understanding dawns, and Athos shuts his eyes, breathing deeply. He lets his magic reach into Porthos, looking for damage, looking for the traces of the magic that was supposed to force the truth out of Porthos. It’s a violent method, and cruel, but should have been effective. 

“Nothing wrong with me, really,” Porthos says quietly. “Though I do now have a migraine. Shouldn’t really use me magic, hurts my head. Gonna be useless for anything within an hour.”

“I’ll look after you,” Athos says. 

“I’d like that. Charlie, come give me a cuddle.”

d’Artagnan does as he’s told, and then Athos leads Porthos to bed. Porthos lets Athos do as he pleases. He lets Athos take him to a spare room with blackouts, instead of the attic; lets Athos strip him and lay him on the bed; lets Athos stroke his cheek and his hair, help him sip water, cover him up, curl around him. Baby him. Athos needs so badly to care for him, after the night. He rubs a salve into the red marks and another into the bruising, uses a little spell to flush the vestiges of Rochefort’s ugly magic away, uses lavender and rosemary lightly against his temples to help the headache. 

“How is he?” d’Artagnan whispers, slipping in much later.

“Sleeping,” Athos says. “Do you need me?”

“No. Just wanted…”

“Come in,” Athos says, understanding. 

d’Artagnan climbs onto the bed and sits with them for a while. He and Athos just watch Porthos sleep, soaking him up, allowing themselves to believe he’s okay. 

“He’s a good actor,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Yes,” Athos agrees, a bit strained. “Too good for my peace of mind.”

“Terrifyingly so.”

They sits for a while longer, and then d’Artagnan goes to make dinner. 

“How come you’re supposed to be the safest of us all, and still manage to take horrible risks, and get yourself into tight corners the rest of us could never begin to dream of?” Athos mutters, sighing.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos’ planted information comes to fruition quickly. Before the next week is out, a man on horseback comes galloping down the track, toward the house. Athos, in the attic-bedroom, spots him first and hurries downstairs, stowing his weaponry about himself, readying his gun, fingers crackling with magic ready to be unleashed. d’Artagnan’s at the kitchen table cutting up potatoes, but he gets to his feet and flips the knife, holding it to attack instead, when Athos comes through. 

They take up positions, on either side of the house. Athos wraps himself in shadow and stills, quieting, waiting. The hoofbeats come on, and the rider clatters into the yard, slowing rapidly and coming to a restless, messy stop. Porthos comes around the house with a bunch of carrots in one hand, wiping mud across his sweaty face. Athos takes the safety off his gun. 

“The king is dead,” the rider says. 

Athos recognises the voice. He relaxes a tiny increment. 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos says. “Who’re you to tell me that?”

Porthos’ magic seeps into the earth, drawing attention. Athos sighs, letting himself melt back into the house, leaving Porthos to his show. Athos collects d’Artagnan and they retreat to the cellar, just in case someone comes to watch in-person. d’Artagnan brings the potatoes with him, and gives Athos half. They’ve filled two pans when Porthos comes down, Aramis on his heels. Aramis has a child in his arms, which is unexpected. 

“The king died last night,” Aramis says, sitting heavily beside Athos. “Officially. Savoy assassinated our decoy.”

“He killed Borel?” Athos asks. 

“Nah,” Porthos says. “Thinks he did. Got one of my Jinxes in to do that bit. You know, intelligence only really comes one way, here. Why are we killing the king?”

“The king is dead,” Aramis says, sounding exhausted. 

“He contracted TB, and nothing we did was of any effect,” d’Artagnan says. “Part of the mission we were on that necessitated us coming here was to try and free a man who might have had a cure, Hubert. Hubert was dead, before we arrived, and the king was dead before we returned.”

Porthos is silent, head on his breast. Athos knows he never liked King Louis, that Porthos has been a revolutionary longer than the rest of them, an abolishionist who faught for democracy before the war broke out. Porthos sighs, and lifts his head, leaning over to peer into Aramis’ clothes, and Athos realises. Porthos’ sadness is not for the dead king. 

“Hello, Louis,” Porthos says. “You hidin’ from me, in there?”

The tousled blond head nods furiously, pressing closer to Aramis. 

“Haven’t seen you in a long time, eh? Bit scary,” Porthos says. 

Louis sits up, away from Aramis, and gives Porthos a defiant look, then gazes around the kitchen with curiosity lighting his eyes. He climbs out of Aramis’ lap and into Porthos arms, tugging at Porthos’ bear, poking his cheek, then bouncing. Porthos bounces his knees, and Louis laughs. 

“More,” Louis demands. 

Porthos sings a little rhyme and bounces Louis, playing a few games with him that set him at his ease. Louis gets down and wanders around, little hand finding its way into the fruit bowl, tugging at the blackouts. 

“He doesn’t understand,” Aramis murmurs. “He didn’t get to see the king much, and he doesn’t connect ‘the king’ with ‘papa’.”

“You can’t stay?” Porthos says. 

“No,” Aramis says. “I have work that must be completed.”

Porthos gazes at Aramis for a long time, then stands abruptly and goes to the stove, putting the kettle on and fussing around with lunch things. Aramis sighs, closing his eyes. Athos gives him a half hug, leaning over from his chair, and leaves his arm around Aramis’ shoulders. d’Artagnan goes back to chopping up potatoes.

“Got enough of those, I think, pup,” Porthos says, stilling d’Artagnan’s knife. “Louis, no. Don’t touch that.”

Louis ignores Porthos and picks up the gun Athos left on the table. They all still, then Porthos waves a lazy hand, and the metal goes liquid, flowing out of Louis’ grasp, forming shapes in the air. Louis laughs and follows it to Porthos. The gun re-forms in Porthos’ hand, and Porthos crouches, holding it to show Louis. 

“At home, you’re in charge, right, Louis?” Porthos says. Louis nods, smiling. “Here, you’re not. This is my house, and I got things you are not going to do. One of those things is that you will not touch anything that looks like this, if you come across it. None of the knives either. Do you understand?”

Louis frowns, clearly not understanding. 

“He never gets told no,” Aramis whispers. “Anne spoils him rotten. He doesn’t understand rules.”

“Not a rule,” Porthos says. “And I’m not saying no. I’m telling you that you are not going to touch, you are not going to play with these. Do you see?”

Louis nods, unsure but willing to go along with the game. Porthos sets the gun on the table, within Louis’ reach. Louis goes up to it and looks at it, then turns away and goes in search of other entertainment. Porthos picks up the gun and gently hits d’Artagnan’s shoulder with it. 

“There’s an old safe in the cellar,” Athos says. “Our rooms have locks on the doors. He won’t get hold of our weapons.”

“Lock it up or keep it about you,” Porthos says. “Hidden.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says. “I can’t tell Anne how to raise him, I have nothing. I would have him less… to him, I am one of many servants, here to do his bidding. His minister.”

“Don’t be so bitter,” Porthos says. “As if this weren’t of your own making. You’re part of his life, he trusts you, that’s as good as your getting and it’s far more than you thought, or you deserve. Get up, I have things for you to take with you. Leave the boy with Athos.”

Porthos takes Aramis deeper into the house, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan to watch over Louis. He’s an easy enough child to watch, he entertains himself and his curiosity, for the moment, doesn’t stretch beyond the kitchen. He does eat his way through most of the cherries and all of the strawberries, and Athos is sure it’ll make him sick, but neither d’Artagnan nor himself care to stop the child. 

Porthos returns and finishes making them lunch, face grim. He picks Louis up and sits him at the table, placing a bit of bread and cheese and a cup of water in front of him. Louis eats the cheese, drinks the water, and ignores the bread. The rest of them get sandwiches and salad. Porthos finds the empty fruit containers, looks at Louis’ bread, and then glares at Athos and d’Artagnan in turn. 

Aramis comes back in before they can get in trouble. He hesitates in the doorway, eyes glued to Louis. 

“Aramis is leaving now,” Porthos tells Louis. “You might not see him again for a very, very long time.”

Louis looks between Porthos and Aramis, then at his mug. Then he gets down and goes to Aramis, holding his arms up until Aramis lifts him. Louis clings stubbornly, refusing to let go even when Aramis tries to set him back down. Louis starts to cry, and Aramis follows suit. Porthos plies the child away and pushes Aramis out of the back door. Louis screams until the sound of hoofbeats vanishes. Porthos cradles him, humming. 

“Put them blackouts up, d’Artagnan,” Porthos murmurs, voice rhythmic and soft. “Put the kettle on, Athos.”

He starts to sing, a little rough, a little off tune, but still very much Porthos, very gentle and warm, magic weaving into the words and filling the room with that warmth, air vibrating a little. Porthos is as helpless to stop his magic in his music as he is with his art or his gardening. Athos puts the kettle on, relaxing as the room darkens, and watches Porthos. Louis’ hiccuping sobs turn from hysterics into broken-hearted crying, and then into snuffles. Porthos sings. 

Hush child, hush little heart beat  
Come water or wind or sleet,  
I’ll hold you close.

When the dark ice comes you’ll  
Safety find in my arms,  
And when the broken  
Shadows creep you’ll find-

Hush my child, hush my heart-  
You’ll safety find, and warmth, and love. 

I’ll hold you close and whisper words  
And turn your heart to hidden   
still. Hush, child, hush little heart. 

“What kind of lullaby is that?” d’Artagnan whispers, when Louis is asleep, snuffling against Porthos’ shoulder.

“Treville sang it me when I was small,” Porthos growls. “It’s a soldier’s lullaby, in’t it? Sommat you learn in quiet places, when death loses its terror.”

He leaves the room, Louis in his arms, and doesn’t reappear until the evening is darkening to night. Athos and d’Artagnan work on the cellars, then roast the potatoes with a chicken Porthos killed in the morning, then set the table, then sit, waiting. Porthos comes down with Louis on his hip, and sits at the table, child in his lap. They eat in silence, and then Porthos retreats again. 

They sit in the kitchen, waiting, not talking. Porthos comes back down eventually and re-takes his seat, rubbing his face. He looks so tired. Athos wants to do something, but he can’t. They’ve kissed, and they sleep in the same bed at night, and they enjoy each other’s company, but that’s it. They haven’t found a rhythm between them, yet. 

“He’s sleeping. He’s in with us for tonight, Athos, I set up a bed in there. Thought he might be happier.”

“Is he staying here?” Athos asks. 

“No. Savoy’ll look here, after that demonstration out front. Tomorrow, or the next day, someone’ll come for him. I wanted to take him, but you were right. I’m no use in a fight anymore.”

“Who’s coming?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“I don’ know,” Porthos says. “I never know much. Whoever it is, it’s gonna be an exchange. A body for a body. Someone else is coming to stay. I don’t know who. I… Aramis looked bad, din’t he?”

“He seemed okay,” d’Artagnan says, trying for certainty but hitting dubious instead. 

“No he didn’t,” Porthos says. “He’s not going to know where Louis is. He thinks he’s staying here. Treville don’t trust him. I don’t like this, I don’t like all these secrets we keep from each other. I don’t like this war, or these stupid senseless deaths. Aramis brought a bunch of intelligence with him. Savoy slaughtered an entire SAS regiment. Savoy is taking all the harvest, and not feeding the people. They’re starvin’ to death. It’s turnin’ ‘em desperate. I’ve got reports of… I can’t do anything from here. Just list the names, longer and longer lists, give what food I can, give what protection I have to this place, try and do my bit in this resistance. But, I don’t know that I agree with Treville. His way ain’t gonna end anything.”

“What do you think we should do, then?” d’Artagnan asks. “What would your plan be?”

“Lorraine. Go to Lorraine. Make a deal. He can negotiate with Spain, and Spain can oust Savoy. I suggest we use Feron.”

“Feron is with Savoy,” d’Artagnan points out. 

“His brother is dead. His power is waning, in Savoy’s court. Savoy is getting more and more paranoid. Feron is a man easily swayed. I did some digging. He is always in pain, and Savoy’s… well, Grimaud. Whatever he is. Grimaud relieves that pain, with an addictive drug.”

“How did you get this?” Athos asks. 

“Rochefort says more with his silences than he thinks. I knew which questions to ask, and how to read him,” Porthos says. “I also have another source, someone who works with Rochefort. I think I know of a way to bring Rochefort down. If we get Feron, make a deal with Lorraine, call on Spain, and take Rochefort out of the equation, I think we might stand a better chance.”

“There’s still Richelieu,” d’Artagnan says. 

“We call him Rochefort’s Cardinal, but he grew up with the king, with Treville. Them three played together as children. Richelieu is politically ambitious and will go the way the wind blows. He might not have much loyalty, but if he believes Savoy can be toppled, I think he’ll turn to Treville. If he does, he’ll bring… certain people with him.”

“Milady,” Athos says. 

“You can’t tell me it wasn’t her who assassinated Louis,” Porthos says. “It’s always her, on the ones that succeed.”

“This one didn’t succeed,” d’Artagnan says. 

“That Jinx I told you about. Ze’s dead. Along with six royal guards. Men hand picked by Treville,” Porthos says. 

“Jesus,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Write a report,” Athos says. “Include all your research and intelligence. I’ll code it for you, and take it.”

“You’re leaving,” Porthos says. 

“Next week,” d’Artagnan says, grimacing. “Sorry.”

“No,” Porthos says. 

“We have to,” d’Artagnan starts. 

“No, I mean I’m not writing a report. Treville will come to me. We’re technically outside Savoy’s border here. We draw his attention, being so close, but there’s a certain amount of leeway. Treville needs to come here. You can bring him… Aramis. Aramis’s brothers from the monastery can bring him. There is a site of pilgrimage here, a well up in the forest. A last rite, before Savoy passes his law to destroy every monastery.”

“It could be done,” d’Artagnan says. 

Porthos nods, looking at Athos, waiting. Athos considers it, turning over the new information. It’s not all new, some of it has come to him in small pieces of intelligence. He never put it together quite the way Porthos has, though. Never found the coherency of the whole. He’d forgotten, with Porthos working in a new way, that it had always been Porthos who’d planned. 

Aramis has always just followed his gut, flung himself from task to task, thrown himself whole-heartedly into things. Athos and d’Artagnan always work on their given-missions, trusting Treville with the bigger picture. Athos improvises and d’Artagnan comes up with things off the cuff, in the moment, and they’re both good strategists. It’s always been Porthos who questioned, who demanded, who changed plans and put in little suggestions that turned failure into success.


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos delivers a baby, the next day. He comes home beaming with pride, and tells them that she’s called Marie-Cessette, that her mother, Elodie, is beautiful, that she is strong and beautiful too, that she’s going to grow and prosper and be the most wonderful woman alive. His overflowing joy is something Athos hasn’t seen in him for years, and Athos watches, unable to do anything except smile back, laugh, and give him hugs. 

“She was brilliant,” Porthos say, sprawled on the sofa in the living-room, blackouts up. “Elodie, I mean. Scared and tired, but brilliant. Her ‘usband is off fighting for Savoy. Well, he’s dead, but no one told her.”

“She still thinks he’s coming home?” Athos asks. 

“No,” Porthos says. “I told her. A bit ago. She demanded it of me. I’m gonna help her bring Marie-Cessette up good. Where’s Louis?”

“He and d’Artagnan are napping upstairs. d’Artagnan had a bad night,” Athos says. “Wish he’d come to me. He had night-terrors.”

“He wet the bed?” Porthos asks, some of the joy sluicing off him, leaving the familiar darkness. 

“I- um,” Athos says, not wanting to break d’Artagnan’s confidence. Porthos just nods. 

“I’ll see what I can do with my herb garden,” Porthos says. “Would help to know his dreams.”

“Constance,” Athos says. “Always Constance. He… I don’t know what to do, Porthos. He seems fine, he goes on, but… God. When we got the news, and when Treville told us we’d not be seeing her, that she was dead in all but name. Oh God, Porthos, I thought d’Artagnan was going to follow her. That his heart would just stop right there, in that room.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Can’t fix the dreams, but I might be able to help him find some rest, a bit of peace. I can walk in his dreams, help him that way.”

“That’s elemental magic,” Athos says. 

“I can do it, with a bit of help from a couple of spells, a mix of herbs I made up myself. It disconnects me. It… it hurts. I’d be out for days. I might forget things.”

Athos remains silent. Porthos nods, and gets up to go about his day, working in the field. He’s sending food off, today, and the bustle of that, people coming and going, keeps Athos shut in the dark bedroom upstairs, with d’Artagnan and Louis. d’Artagnan sleeps most of the day away, Athos entertains Louis with stories and spells and drawing things. 

Porthos comes up in the evening, slipping into the room. He looks tired, a bit muddy, but with a certain repressed excitement. He scoops Louis up off the floor where’s he’s drawing and nudges d’Artagnan until he starts awake. Athos glares. He’d hoped d’Artagnan could get some solid rest. 

“Come downstairs,” Porthos says. “Both ‘a you. Come on.”

They trail after him, d’Artagnan yawning and grumbling wordlessly. Athos is pretty sure d’Artagnan’s still half asleep, following Porthos because he’s trying to get Porthos still for cuddling. They go to the bigger of the living-rooms, and Athos stops. d’Artagnan walks into him, then pushes him gently aside and goes to Porthos, sighing contentedly and tucking himself into Porthos’ arms. 

“Charlie, love,” Porthos says. “Look up, darling. Got a surprise for you.”

d’Artagnan gives Porthos a grumpy look, then turns, searching for his surprise. He makes a strangled sound when he spots the sofa, stumbling over. Constance is lying there, asleep, hair shorn off to a stubble. She looks very thin, and very ill, but she’s there and she’s alive. There are bandages showing on her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her cheek, her neck. d’Artagnan presses his hands to her, trying to hug her to him, sobbing and gasping for breath. 

Athos turns away. 

“Kitchen, for your surprise,” Porthos says. 

There’s something tight and unhappy about Porthos. Athos tries to pay attention to it, but he’s busy drinking in Constance’s presence there. Porthos nudges him, and he goes obediently into the kitchen. Sylvie’s sat at the table, a glass of water at her elbow, scribbling on some paper. She looks up when he enters, and beams, jumping to her feet and running over, embracing him. 

Athos’ heart leaps, and joy sings through him. He laughs, rocking with her, tipping her head up and catching her lips, kissing, bending his head to her neck. When he manages to tear himself away to look at her again, he laughs. Her hair’s tied back in neat plaits, she’s wearing jeans and a jumper and boots, a belt and a harness over the top, three guns that Athos can see, at least a couple of blades, a satchel he recognises as her first aid on the table. 

“What are you doing here?” Athos asks. “It’s good to see you!”

“You too,” Sylvie says, laughing. “Athos, look at your hair!”

“It needs cutting, I know,” Athos says. “And I need a shave.”

“It looks lovely,” Sylvie lies, laughing again, kissing him. “Look at you. It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Athos says. 

“I’m here for Louis, I’m taking him on. I have orders for you, from Anne. That’s what I was writing. I don’t have time, I want more time,” Sylvie says, pressing their foreheads together. 

“So stay,” Athos says, shutting his eyes. They pretend it’s possible for a moment. 

“I need to go, now,” Sylvie says. 

“I know,” Athos says. 

He pulls back, and Porthos passes Louis into Sylvie’s arms. Louis seems happy with her, and she gives his cheek an affectionate pat. Athos kisses her again and holds them both for a long moment, then lets her go. She strides out of the kitchen, casting as she goes, mist coming up. She walks into it, not looking back, and grows distant. When the mist fades, they’re gone. Athos covers his mouth to stifle his tears. 

He sits out by the back door for a long time. No one comes to him, and he’s glad of that. All he wants is Sylvie, is his time with her back, her body in his arms. He just wants her. Needs her. When night falls properly, the moon coming out, Athos goes back inside, cold creeping into him. He stands by the Aga for a while to try and thaw himself, and eats some bread and cheese. Porthos comes in and finds him there, and falters. 

“Oh,” Athos says. 

“Um, Constance is resting. I set up a bedroom down here for her. Aramis sent some medicine with her, which I’ve done. I healed her burns, no one’ll notice a bit of extra magic, Sylvie will’ve shielded the house. It’ll hold till the morning. Wish you could do that kind of magic.”

“Well I can’t,” Athos snaps. 

“Constance will be okay, physically. She woke up. The fire burnt her voice away, and there’s something mixed up in her mind, something burnt away there, too. Dr. Lemay couldn’t work it out. She’ll stay with me.”

“Fine,” Athos says, prickly and defensive though he has no right to be.

“Right,” Porthos says. “I’m gonna head up to bed.”

“I’ll take the room next to d’Artagnan. I’ll come get my things.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Yeah. Whatever you want, Athos. I’m too tired to fight with you. Too tired to fight for you. You’re right to chose her, anyway. I’ve got nothing left to give anyone.”

Porthos turns, and leaves the room, nearly bumping right into d’Artagnan on his way out. d’Artagnan edges around him and comes into the kitchen, giving Athos a disappointed look. They sit at the table together, silence settling between them. 

“Constance,” Athos says, eventually. 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, all wide-eyed wonder, back to the young man they met so many years ago, the ravages of war falling away from him. “Yeah.”

“Porthos will see her right,” Athos says. 

“He will. I wish I could stay. I might take another week.”

“Do so. I’ll tell Treville you needed it to heal. It won’t be a lie.”

“Thank you.”

Another silence stretches between them, more taut. d’Artagnan sighs. 

“I love them both,” Athos says, softly. “I think in different ways. But both of them in a romantic way. I forgot. I was away from Porthos for so long, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. He didn’t expect me to remain faithful and celibate and stop living.”

“You didn’t tell him, though. And neither did I. How did he know? He called Sylvie your surprise. How did he know you’d be pleased to see her?”

“Maybe she said something, maybe I talk in my sleep, maybe he just made a connection. You know what he’s like, he sees connections in everything.”

“You need to go talk to him. I don’t think that everything with Rochefort was acting. I don’t think Porthos has much left in him, right now. He’s as burnt out as Constance is. Exhausted, and alone. He’s been alone here for a long time. Can you imagine that? Just him, building this… I dunno. Empire of intelligence, this bastion of safety. He loves Louis, and Aramis. They’ve both just left him, he might never see them again. We’re going to leave, too. He might never see us again. Athos, we can’t leave him like this. It will break him.”

Athos nods. It’s not like any of them are intact anymore, though. Even before the war with Savoy, they fought Spain, and they ran missions for Louis. They’ve all been soldiers for so long. They’ve killed so many people, and been in so many battles. And then this, to fight their own brothers, their own countrymen. Athos climbs to his feet, tiredness dragging at him, making him heavy. 

“Goodnight,” Athos says, squeezing d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Come get me, if you need me.”

“Will you be with Porthos?”

“If he allows it. If not, I’ll knock on the door and let you know. Go, sit with her, get some rest if you can.”

They go upstairs together, embracing on the landing below the trap-door and parting ways, Athos to climb into the attic, d’Artagnan to retreat back downstairs to Constance. Athos finds Porthos standing by the window, leaning on the wall. He turns, but doesn’t seem surprised to see athos. 

“I don’t know where your things are, they’ve got a bit mixed with mine,” Porthos says. 

His eyes are closed, and Athos can see lines of pain etched in his face. Athos goes to him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. 

“I love you,” Athos says. “As well as Sylvie. I love you so much, Porthos. I didn’t know it would be possible to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

“I know. I understand. It’s alright.”

“It’s not, I should have spoken to you of this. I’ve just wanted everything back, though. With you. The world out there feels so far away.”

“Yeah. We’re a bit timeless, here, aren’t we? Feels that way, anyway.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Yeah, sure. If you like.”

“I would like that. Do you still love me?”

“I dunno. I don’t know what I feel about anything, anymore. I just… everything just hurts, all the time. I understand Feron, you know. If Grimaud came and offered me relief from this, I would take it. Without a thought.”

“I can’t fix this for you,” Athos says. 

“I know. There’s just nothing, Athos. I’ve got nothing. All I ever wanted was a family. A child. To have people.”

“You’ve got friends. Good ones,” Athos says, repeating something d’Artagnan said to him, when they thought they were going to die, a long time ago. Before Sylvie.

“Elodie said she’d let me help, with Marie-Cessette. That she’d be glad of it. For a moment I saw myself, me and her and the baby, her on my arm, working together, living together, building a better world for Marie. I could love Elodie, I think. I know her quite well, now.”

“But?”

“I thought of you. I thought… of you.”

Athos closes his eyes, pulling Porthos close against him, holding him tight. Porthos starts to cry, hollow, empty crying that sounds like it hurts. Athos rocks him, tears prickling his own eyes. 

“I love you, I love you. I promise. I will give you everything, one day,” Athos says. “We will have children, and a garden, somewhere peaceful. I will leave this country to it’s war if I must, to provide you with that.”

“What about Sylvie?”

“I can love her, too. Both of you. If that’s alright with you. Otherwise… I wish I could say I’ll give her up, for you. But I won’t.”

“Okay. Okay. I can do that. You’d really do that? Move away, leave the country to it’s war?”

“Yes. No. It’s not that I would, it’s that I will. We will. We’ve already given as much as we can. There’s no one who could look at us and think we’ve given up. We have fought, and we will continue to fight. There are other ways to do that. I will write, you can tell our children stories, we can remember. We can petition governments and start protests. There are avenues that do not end in certain death, that are not so full of despair.”

“You can’t promise me this, Athos. You can’t. It’s not fair.”

“I can, I do. I want it as well. I want peace, and a family, and you. Sylvie. Children. I want it all. Why shouldn’t we have it?”

“Athos,” Porthos says.

“I know. It’s alright. Come lie with me, tell me what you dream. Tell me about the children you want, the house you want, the garden. Talk to me about what you want to do. If there was no war, if there was none of this. Just you and me.”

“And Sylvie. Better put her in my dreams, now, hadn’t I?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I like her. I’m not gonna fall in love with her, or anything. But I like her. I can see her being part of our life, our children’s lives. Does she want them? Kids?”

“I don’t know,” Athos admits. “There’s been so little time. Just snatches.”

“We’ll ask her, next time we see her.”

They curl around each other in the bed, and Porthos talks until he’s hoarse. Athos whispers promises into his skin with kisses. 

Athos leaves Porthos soon after their night together. Porthos seems less full of despair. He teases d’Artagnan once or twice, and is more open with his affection, more open with his doings, less shut up in himself. Athos feels settled, when he leaves, sure in Porthos, in them, in his promise. He knows Porthos will remind him of it, will make him fulfil it when the time comes. Porthos won’t have a fight, there. Athos is ready, whenever Porthos is. He’s ready to fight, as well. He has hope, now, and something to look forward to that isn’t the end of this war, which he is beginning to believe never will end. 

He coordinates the kidnapping of Governor Feron. They use Louis’ funeral as bait, and separate Feron from Grimaud with a neat piece of distraction provided by Sylvie. She lures Grimaud in the wrong direction, and Feron is left in the safe hands of three red guards. Athos has no trouble getting rid of them. Marcheaux is there, and Marcheaux, they know, is the man who set Constance’s fire blazing too high for her control. Athos leaves him alive, for d’Artagnan. 

They take Feron through a series of safe houses, and Athos leaves for another job before they reach Porthos. He gets the memo that Feron is safely locked away there. It’s another month before he manages to wend his way back there. d’Artagnan has rejoined him, by then, and they arrive together. With a car, this time. They’ve been running a mission in Spain, which means they have petrol, for once. 

Porthos is out in the garden, sleeves rolled up, picking plums. He overballances when he spots them, and someone wails in distress from the grass. Porthos starts to laugh, and the wail cuts off, followed by giggles. Constance stands, first, and wobbles over to them, wrapping her arms around d’Artagnan, leaning into him. 

“Charlie!” She calls. 

“Hello love,” d’Artagnan says. “Are you gardening?”

“No. I’m eating plums,” she says, smiling, pressing lots of kisses to his cheek and neck. “You’re prickly. I can fix that.”

“Maybe later. Look who’s come with me?” d’Artagnan says. 

Constance gives a joyful cry and flings herself into Athos’ arms, in his turn. Porthos is on his feet by now, coming over, shaking his head. The back door opens, and Governor Feron, in jeans and a t-shirt, comes out. Athos freezes, tightening his hold on Constance. She shivers. 

“Danger?” she asks. 

“No, no,” Porthos says. “Just Philippe. Come here, darlin’, for a minute?”

“We have guests?” Feron asks. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “You already know ‘em both.”

Feron limps to Porthos’ side, touches his shoulder, then takes Constance’s arm and leads her into the house. Porthos catches d’Artagnan before he can follow, and takes them to the top of the gardens, where there’s a bench. There’s a stick leaning against it. Athos picks it up, sitting, and examines it. 

“Philippe’s,” Porthos says. “He likes to sit out here. He’s… he’s not a kind man, but he loved his brother, and without the drug in his system, he is not unkind. He is good to Connie, and to me. He’s helpful. He might not have done good things, but he is proving to be a good man. I trust him.”

“Then I do, too,” Athos says, at once. 

“It helps to think of him as Philippe Achille, instead of governor Feron,” Porthos says. 

“I’ll endeavour to do so,” Athos says. 

d’Artagnan remains silent. Porthos sighs, and gives him permission with a wave of a hand, and d’Artagnan hurries inside after Constance. 

“She’s healin’ up nicely,” Porthos says. “She struggles to think, and some of her reactions are off. She’s got a lot of PTSD, and there’s somethin’ muddled up in her mind, but she’ll be okay with a bit of care. She’s safe here. All of us here understand pain, and confusion, and fear. We understand injury and disability. It’s, it’s good, actually.”

“I’m glad. You enjoy the company?”

“I do. Oh, we’ve got a cat. Connie found ‘im, a little kitten, up in the barn. Must’ve wandered in to take shelter. We can’t find an owner, so we got ‘im seen to by the vet, and we keep ‘im. She’s a bit of a one for gathering lost souls. We’ve had a bird with a broken wing, and we’ve got a fox cub we look after, though we’re keeping her wild as we can.”

“Always was one for looking after strays.”

“Thinking of d’Art?” Porthos asks, and laughs. 

“You seem happier.” 

“I am. We have been gathering information on Lorraine, and Feron and I have persuaded Treville to let us ride with him, when he goes to negotiate. You will come, as well. d’Artagnan will stay with Connie.”

“As you say. You’re in charge.”

“Yeah. Philippe’s been useful, though he knows more about Grimaud than Savoy. It was Grimaud who organised everything, he just used Philippe’s name and status. I think Grimaud might be more of a problem than we’ve taken into account. He and Rochefort, I had thought, were Savoy’s left and right hand. I am beginnin’ to see, though, that it’s more a division of labour. Grimaud is the brains. Rochefort’s clever, and he’s good at coming up with intricate plans, and he’s definitely involved in a couple of things. But Grimaud is Savoy’s strategist. It’s Grimaud who creates the overarching plans.”

“Can’t we leave him to Spain, like Savoy?” Athos asks. 

“I have a feeling that Grimaud will sell his services to the highest bidder. Spain will less deal with him, and more take him in. I think also that Grimaud will want revenge, and that none of us will be safe as long as he has power and position. Which Spain will give him. Grimaud is an asset. They will take him.”

“Sylvie has tangled with him, now,” Athos says. “That will get his attention, won’t it? What about setting a trap?”

“Use her as bait?”

“Yes.”

Porthos nods, thoughtful. 

“Let’s see what we can come up with, while we wait for Treville to arrive. I dunno when he’s coming or how, you all just turn up.”

Porthos sits back, and Athos follows his lead, putting work aside for the moment. He leans into Porthos’ side, and tips his head back, in case Porthos wants to kiss him. Porthos does, after a moment, sighing into it. 

Treville arrives two days later. d’Artagnan spends the time with Constance, who spends the majority of her time lying in a patch of grass near to wherever Porthos is working, eating the things he picks, chatting with him about the things she finds in the grass and sees in the sky. She talks with d’Artagnan, too. A lot of the time she’s quiet, though. Athos spends the time with Porthos, too, carrying things and doing the bending over for him. Porthos finds it terribly amusing, pointing and making Athos do things. Athos indulges him, enjoying his lighthearted joking. 

They’re in the front of the house, where there’s nothing edible growing, for once, when Treville arrives. Porthos is supervising Athos and d’Artagnan weeding a flower bed, sitting in a camping chair, Constance beside him, both their feet up on a cooler of beer. Philippe, who has mostly avoided them thus far, is sitting on a bench next to the front door, reading. 

“It’s not a flower, Charlie, it’s a weed,” Constance says. “Yank it up. For heaven’s sake stop being squeamish. Kill the bugger.”

d’Artagnan pulls it up, snaps it off it’s little root, and twists to present it to Constance with a flourish. 

“For my lady,” he says, head bowed, on one knee. 

“Givin’ me weeds,” Constance scoffs, but she takes the flower and tucks it behind her ear, turning to Porthos. “What do you think?”

“Lovely,” Porthos says. “Go on into the house, Connie. Take Charlie, yeah? Go out the back, actually, pick some of them little peas for dinner. Get a whole bunch, there are lot of people.”

“One, Athos. Two, Charlie. Three, Philippe. Four, Porthos. Five, Treville. Five people.”

“Six, Connie,” Porthos says. 

“Oh yeah. Six of us. Plenty of peas. Come on, Charlie, the grown ups want to talk business.”

“You’re a grown up,” d’Artagnan says, getting up.

“Yes, but you’re a puppy,” Constance says. 

She kisses Porthos’ curls on her way inside, and takes d’Artagnan’s hand leaning close to talk quietly. Athos stretches, and turns to watch Treville come up the path. 

“You have a very nice little set up, here,” Treville says. “Should everyone be so obvious?”

“I’m having a family get together,” Porthos says. “I’ve told everyone I was adopted.”

Athos laughs, looking around at their white faces. His own is a little sunburnt, actually, so it’s pink. Athos takes Constance’s chair. 

“Are we staying out here?” Treville says. 

“No,” Philippe calls, closing his book. “I’m fed up with sitting on this hard bench, Porthos.”

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” Porthos says. “Take ‘em through to your office, tell ‘em what you’ve come up with. I’ll get coffee, too.”

Athos and Treville follow Philippe’s limping steps through the house to one of the bigger offices. There’s a table, instead of a desk, and very comfy looking furniture, lots of cushions, a chaise lounge. Treville seems as uncomfortable with Feron as Athos is. They both sit on the less squashy looking chairs, at the table, and wait while Philippe fusses about with some sheets of paper. 

“Lorraine wants to be independant,” Philippe says. “Who is regent, since Louis’ death?”

“I am,” Treville says. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t Louis name a commoner?” Philippe spits. 

Porthos comes in with a tray, and laughs, setting everything down and taking a glass to Feron. 

“Here, this’ll put you in a better mood, you git,” Porthos says. “I’ve got coffee for you, too.”

“You think coffee solves everything,” Philippe says, draining the glass. 

“My coffee does solve everything,” Porthos says. “You’re named regent, Treville?”

“Yes. Not that the will is valid, according to Savoy’s laws.”

“Hmm. Lorraine is blue blooded, but he’s an honest and sensible man,” Philippe says. “He might listen, if you were to bring myself and the queen with you. Anne is free, is she not?”

“She’s busy, but she has made the time, if it should prove necessary,” Treville says. “I would prefer to do it without her.”

“I have heard rumours that Lorraine is playing host to my dear brother Gaston,” Philippe says. “Gaston is an irritating, petulant man-child. There is a chance that he has annoyed Lorraine so much that he will leap at another possibility.”

“Philippe believes that Grimaud’s plan is to put Gaston on the throne, once Savoy has a firm grasp of the country. Gaston is… easier to guide,” Porthos says. “They will use Lorraine.”

“That matches what we’ve been hearing, near enough,” Treville says. “That Grimaud has another plan, that Savoy’s time may not last long.”

“Can we offer Lorraine independance?” Athos asks. 

“If we can keep Gaston out of the way long enough to speak to Lorraine alone, and as long as neither Grimaud nor Rochefort turn up, I think it should be fairly straightforward,” Treville says. “Porthos, you distract Gaston. I believe he may underestimate you, which will be to our advantage.”

“Yes, and you’ll rub him the wrong way, which is always entertaining,” Philippe says. “The comte and I both have credentials high enough that he might actually think we can give him things, on our own account. If you make an offer, he’ll believe it comes from the crown much more easily. The colour of your skin is going to be very useful.”

Porthos sends Philippe an annoyed look, but just grunts, accepting that. Athos sighs. They hammer out the details, and agree to go the next day, before suspicion is aroused about the now-bustling little estate. 

They’ve still got the car, so they take that, Treville and Porthos crammed into the back. Porthos falls asleep on Treville’s shoulder and drools, and Treville gets a nostalgic, fond look about him that has Philippe rolling his eyes. It feels entirely like a family day out, not a mission for a top secret, underground resistance in a country at war. Until, that is, they leave the tiny sleepy village and the farm-lands around it. 

There are four check points before they reach the old Lorraine border, and then two more before they get to the manor house Lorraine uses as base. The first two are easy. They’re country check points, with single-man teams, young people who just glance over the occupants of the car, run the plates, and wave them on their way. The next one is more complicated. Their papers are demanded. They have papers, though, and they pass muster, even forged as they are. It’s when they hit the runup to the fourth that Athos has to pull over and wake Porthos. 

“They check for elemental magic,” Treville says. “Don’t speak, don’t move, don’t look at anyone, and we might just get through.”

“You have elemental magic?” Philippe asks, twisting in his seat with grimace of pain. “You never mentioned that!”

“Yeah well,” Porthos mutters. “I can ‘ide it, done it all me life.”

“You’re an unregistered, unrecognised elemental?” Philippe asks. “Jesus Christ, you’re just a bomb waiting to go off, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Porthos says. 

“Do you have control?” Athos asks. “Even with…”

“Even with my head injury. Brain injury. Yeah, I’ve got control. I can probably make us unnoticeable, back here, with word.”

“Without anything leaking out?” Athos asks. 

“Probably,” Porthos says. “Long as none of you touch me, or speak directly to me, or acknowledge me in any way.”

“Do it,” Athos says. 

Porthos and Treville flicker, then Athos… forgets them. They’re still there, and he knows they’re there, but at the same time, he’s forgotten. He can’t see them, they don’t quite exist. He drives on, and hands over his and Feron’s fake papers, pretending boredom and irritability when they’re scanned by a mage in chains. 

They’re let through, and Athos drives on, to the old border. There are two soldiers sat there, but they don’t pull the car over and Athos is pretty sure both are drunk. He drives for ten more minutes, then screams and nearly drives into a wall when Porthos and Treville pop back into existence. Porthos crumples forwards. 

“I forgot,” Athos says, a little freaked out by the effect.

“That’s the point,” Porthos says. “Ow. I’m gettin’ used to that.”

“Why does doing magic give you a headache?” Philippe asks. 

“A Cardinal used magic to try and get intelligence out of me, tried to use me to assassinate the queen, tried to- never mind,” Porthos says. “I can’t remember it, anyway. Huge rush of magic, I resisted, hit my head. Violence and magic don’t mix, it’s like chemicals. The magic reacts to the impact. Boom. More or less.”

“I see,” Philippe says. 

Athos pulls back onto the road. The two checkpoints in Lorraine’s land are easy- they just give Feron’s real credentials and are waved through, right to the house. They’re met by soldiers, but private owned ones, not state ones. They’re escorted through the house into a drawing room, where Lorraine is sat with Gaston, looking fed up. He brightens when he sees Feron. 

“I heard you were kidnapped, Achille,” Lorraine says, getting to his feet and shaking Feron’s hand. “It’s good to see you so well.”

“I was kidnapped. My jailers, however, persuaded me of the same thing they’re about to persuade you two of. Treville is a very generous man,” Philippe says. 

Athos draws Gaston away, and hands him over to Porthos in the corridor, then settles in to stand guard. If Gaston comes back too soon, Athos will just knock him silly. It’ll be crude, but should be effective enough. 

It takes all day for Treville to hammer out an agreement with Lorraine. Porthos must be doing something right, because Gaston does not return until nightfall, just as Lorraine is about to sign. He storms through the house and bursts into the room, before Athos can knock him out. Porthos follows, hands in pockets, grinning. 

“What did you do with him?” Athos murmurs, while Gaston stamps and rages at Treville when Treville tells him all Porthos’ promises were empty. 

“Drank with him, played a hand. He’s a gambler. You remember I used to play with the king?” 

Athos smirks. Porthos had let Louis win over and over, and at the end of a night he’d lift Louis’ winnings from him. Louis never noticed them missing, and Porthos returned anything of any real value. 

“What did you lose?” Athos asks. 

Porthos pulls his hand out of his pocket and shows Athos a couple of rings, a bit of silver, the hoop of his earring, a couple of crumpled money notes, and what looks like Gaston’s seal. Athos nods. 

“I’m signing it anyway,” Lorraine says, scribbling his name at the bottom of Treville’s document. “There. It is done. Lorraine will back the resistance. If you finance me, I will petition Spain on your behalf, and raise an army.”

“Done,” Treville says. “Porthos?”

“Yeah?” Porthos says. 

“Can we finance Lorraine?”

“I wouldn’ know,” Porthos grumbles. Treville looks at him, and Porthos looks stubbornly back, then sighs and steps forward to open his briefcase. He pulls out two jewellery cases, and a cheque book. “Sell these, that’ll get you going. Once you fulfill the contract you just signed, I will authorise the bank to pay this out.”

Porthos hands over a check. Lorraine hums, then nods. Porthos hands him an envelope, to slide the check into, and their transaction is done. 

“Wait,” Gaston says. “You provide the money? A governor, and bastard-prince, a comte, and a regent, and you’re financing this? What are you?”

“A thief,” Porthos says, spinning Gaston’s seal and catching it. 

Gaston gives a cry of outrage and leaps at Porthos. Porthos laughs, stepping aside, and Gaston goes tripping over the carpet. 

“Well,” Philippe says. “Thank you, gentlemen. This is a family affair, now. We will deal with Gaston.”

“You are welcome to stay with me, Achille,” Lorraine says. “I have a very good brandy set in.”

“I shall,” Philippe says. 

Porthos huffs, and Philippe turns to him, smiling. A genuine, fond smile. Athos steps back and allows Porthos to embrace the man and say his goodbyes. There’s always, these days, the chance that when you part, you will not meet again, so Athos doesn’t comment when Porthos is emotional most of the way home. 

Porthos makes them invisible through all the checkpoints, leaving Athos to give his real credentials when asked for them. When they arrive back at the estate, Porthos is exhausted, but they return triumphant. And to dinner: Constance and d’Artagnan have cooked. 

 

**

“And I’m telling you, Athos, that we need Porthos to make it work!” Anne says, for the fourth time in as many minutes. 

“He is not on duty, he is retired from active work, he’s given enough to your stupid crown. He. Is. Not. Going!” Athos says, also not for the first time. 

Treville clears his throat, derailing their argument. Athos turns sharply, opening his mouth to defend his side, but Treville holds up a hand. Athos stops, sitting down. He’s not sure when he stood up. Anne sits, too. They’re sat either side of a table, Treville at the head, Aramis on Anne’s side, d’Artagnan on Athos’. Thought in terms of the argument...

“I think Athos is right,” Aramis says, softly, not looking at Anne. “Porthos puts on a good show, but he still gets confused and tired. He shouldn’t be in the field.”

“It’s not ‘in the field’, though, is it?” d’Artagnan says. “Sorry Athos, but it’s true. We’re not soldiers anymore. We’ve got no army to fight for, no sovereign.”

“Tell me exactly what he’d be doing. Down to the last detail,” Athos says. “I know you’ve already been over it, go over it again.”

“If I can get a letter to Rochefort, I can bring him here,” Anne says. “We can set a trap, and kill him.”

“What do you need Porthos for?” Athos says. 

“Aramis usually carries my letters, but he’s not getting anywhere near Savoy. Savoy hated him even before this disaster. Rochefort never strays far from Savoy, so Aramis can’t go. Porthos has a… rapport with Rochefort,” Anne says. 

“This is Porthos’ idea,” Treville says. “Rochefort has given us no information that’s been any use, so far, but he still seems to think he’s stringing Porthos along. Giving a man power makes him hard to beat. But making a man think he has power where he has none, makes him careless where you are watchful. Rochefort likes humiliating Porthos. He’s seen the house Porthos is paid a pittance to maintain. He’s seen Porthos as a servant, as a poor ex-soldier. That is the image Porthos has. If Porthos goes to him, begging for help, I think Rochefort will believe it.

“Aramis, you’re right, but it fits with the plan. If Porthos gets confused, or upset, or has a migraine, it will sell his part. It will show him as helpless, weak. Both of which Rochefort enjoys.”

“Then what? Once he’s got to Rochefort?” Athos asks. 

“He doesn’t even have to go to Rochefort, just set up a meet somewhere,” d’Artagnan says. 

“We can’t ambush him, he’ll have a guard and he’s good. He’ll check if Porthos isn’t alone. If he thinks it’s a trick, he’ll kill Porthos,” Athos says. 

“Which is where my letters come in,” Anne says. “Porthos will bargain. Rochefort’s aid, for my letters.”

“Why does Porthos have your letters to Rochefort?” Athos asks. 

“Porthos is a thief,” Treville says. “That is the story he spreads. He cheats at cards, steals valuables. He really is a thief, he likes taking things that he shouldn’t. Belgard taught him many… useful skills. The point is, it won’t be a stretch for people to believe blackmail. Porthos used to carry a lot of correspondence, once the postal service went down, and we needed more secure ways to communicate. Anne will date her letters from that time. Porthos has kept them as a safeguard, if he should ever need money.”

“The letter will say?” Athos asks. 

“It will speak of my love for Rochefort, my shameful desire, how my marriage is a sham,” Anne says. “Porthos’ informant in Rochefort’s household has given us this. Rochefort is in love with me. He will come. He will make Porthos organise a meet, and I will demand he comes alone. He will bring men, but not red guard. Fewer and less skilled. That is when we will set our trap.”

“It’s a lot for Porthos to do,” Athos says. 

“He’ll enjoy it,” d’Artagnan says. “He’s bored as anything.”

“None of you, none of you have any idea,” Aramis whispers. “None of you saw him, lying there, almost dead. None of you know. He plays it down, but he has a traumatic brain injury. If he uses too much magic, or if too much is used on him. If he hits his head again. If, if, if. So many possibilities. It will kill him. And that’s not even taking into consideration his other injuries. If he is under attack, he cannot defend himself. He’s out of practise, and he can’t lift his arm above his head, he loses his balance, he can’t bend without something to hang on to.”

“He can do it,” Athos says. “I know his injuries as well as you, Aramis. Porthos can do it, probably without a problem. It won’t kill him.”

“We’re in agreement, then? Porthos will deliver my letters?” Anne says. 

“No,” Athos says. “Give them to me, and I will go talk to him. We’ll decide if it’s worth the risk. I’ll let you know, if I can, but don’t expect to hear until afterwards, if we do it.”

Athos waits for Anne to write the letters, and seal them, and then he gets a train. The trains still run, criss-crossing the country, but they’re sporadic and most of them are constantly patrolled by soldiers. Athos has been at court, recently, so they mostly leave him alone, recognising his face. He rents a horse from the station, and arrives at the estate as the sun rises. 

Constance is in the kitchen, kneading bread. Her hair’s growing back, and she’s got it in a little ponytail. She calls for Porthos, when Athos walks in. Porthos doesn’t appear. It takes Constance ten minutes to shout loudly enough to wake him. She keeps on trying, laughing, giving him a kiss on the cheek between attempts, saying good morning, offering him coffee. Porthos eventually comes in, yawning, stretching, wearing a billowing night-dress. Athos stares. 

“What?” Porthos asks. 

“What are you wearing?” Athos demands, plucking at the fabric. 

“It’s a nightie. Elodie made it me. Gives me a nice breezy feelin’,” Porthos says. 

“Elodie. With the baby?” Athos asks. 

“Marie-Cessette. Seven months, next week. She’s proper chubby, really healthy.”

“What about the other woman? When we came to lay low, when d’Artagnan was hurt. There were two pregnant women.”

“She miscarried,” Porthos says, a little short. “Anne send the letters with you? We set?”

“No. I don’t want you to do it,” Athos says. 

“Give ‘em over. I’ve sorted a meeting with Rochefort for the end of the week, assumed you’d show up soon enough. Expected you the day before yesterday, actually.”

“Porthos,” Athos says. 

“What? Don’t answer that actually. I know what. I’m not an invalid, I’m not useless,” Porthos says. 

“No. I told Aramis that. I still don’t like it,” Athos says. 

“You’ll stay with Connie,” Porthos says. “I’ll take your ‘orse. You can stay for the rest of the week, nag me to your heart’s content, try and talk me out of it.”

“You won’t manage, though,” Constance says cheerfully. “He’s stubborn. He didn’t let the onions beat him, he won’t have his mind changed by a comte.”

“Them onions were stubborn, too. Wanted to stay in the ground,” Porthos mutters, going to put the kettle on. 

Constance turns out to be correct. Athos uses all his wiles, and offers every sort of bribe, and even tries seduction, but Porthos won’t be moved. On Friday he sets off just after dawn, on Athos’ horse, letters safe in his coat. He looks like a hero out of a storybook, riding off with a feather in his hat (put there by Constance for luck), a belt with a blade (put there by Athos, for luck), his old leather jacket (chosen by Porthos. For luck). Athos watches him, and then watches the road where he disappeared, and then just sits down in the grass to wait. 

Constance sits with him, brings him food, picks him flowers, does some weeding, and then lies on her back, looking up at the sky. Athos lies beside her, closing his eyes. He tamps down his worry and anxiety, reminding himself that Porthos can look after himself. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t come back,” Constance says, when the sun starts to sink. “He lets me be free, lets me act the child. It’s easier. It hurts less, to be like this. Charlie loves me, and he’s very good to me, but Porthos understands somehow. Makes me things that help me sleep and think.”

“It was Porthos’ job. In our unit, in the SAS. Aramis was marksman, and looked to our physical well being. Porthos was hand to hand specialist, and looked to our mental well being. I had the expertise in weaponry, and took on the duty of leadership, which meant I looked to everyone’s general well being and comfort and made sure we all got paid and had a place to lay our heads. d’Artagnan was our lucky charm, our hope, our enthusiasm. Knew everything about animals, about talking people in and out of things. I miss those days.”

“So does Charlie. You romanticise it. I remember then, too. You were miserable, still thinking Milady was dead, then realising she was alive and an assassin. Porthos was happy enough, but he relied on Aramis too much, and Aramis was already unspooling, losing himself to Anne and that mess.”

“d’Artagnan wanted you and couldn’t have you,” Athos remembers. “Yes, the grass is always greener.”

They contemplate that, and Athos is very aware of just how green the grass is that they’re lying in. In all senses. If Porthos returns, if they win this battle. They’ve got something, now. With Lorraine, and Feron, and Gaston. With Rochefort out of the picture. If they can do this. The grass will be green enough that Athos thinks Porthos might take him up on the offer to retire. 

Porthos doesn’t return, that night. Athos and Constance sit up in the kitchen, and then in the smaller living-room. They leave the lights out and the blackout open, so they can watch for him from the window. Constance curls up on the sofa, using Athos as a pillow, somewhere between two and three. She falls asleep by four. Athos stays up, on guard. 

He’s drifting, not quite dozing but on the edge of it, when he hears hoofbeats. Two sets. He inches out from under Constance and retrieves his weapons, slipping out of the house and concealing himself. He watches the road, as the horses approach. He recognises Porthos, but not the person with him. He stays hidden until Porthos dismounts, and his companion springs out of the saddle. Athos recognises a jinx in the quick movement, skin as dark as the night sky, the shimmer of magic. He steps forward. 

“Went well,” Porthos grunts. “This is Ki, she’ll be staying in the cellars a bit. Rochefort gave her over, for my letters. Along with a lot of gold, and an empty promise. Ah, there’s a possibility he thinks he got the gold back, but his thief ain’t quick enough. I got it.”

“Good, that’ll help fund Anne’s newest food project,” Athos says, stowing his pistol. “Ki? I’ll show you where you can stay. It’s not as bad as Porthos makes it sound, when he calls it a cellar. It’s hidden, it’s warm, there’s a kitchen and a bathroom. It’s quite nice down there, now.”

When he’s made sure Ki is settled, Athos comes back up to the kitchen. Porthos is digging into a plate of breakfast, telling Constance about the second horse in the yard while he eats, listening to her telling him about their vigil. Porthos gives Athos a grin, then sends Constance away, into the garden to gather some things for Ki. 

“It’s set. Rochefort took the bait, I promised to arrange for him to meet Anne alone, in return for a second payment and means to cross the border to Luxembourg,” Porthos says. “I’ll send him a message on Wednesday, inviting him to the Refuge safe house Friday. It’s a good layout, for a trap. It’s got a wide open courtyard, plenty of windows to set Ara-Ara-m-mis…” Porthos trails off, rubbing his side, face clouding. 

“It’s perfect,” Athos says, gently, guiding Porthos up from the table. “Come rest. You’re just tired.”

“He let me get took,” Porthos whispers. 

“He got distracted, that’s not the same thing,” Athos says. 

“He left, when I needed him, for that god-forsaken monastery. I wanted him to be there. To be here. He left me alone in a house with no electricity, a leaking roof, fuck all support.”

“I know. I remember. I was so angry, when I heard. I don’t think I ever told you? I went to the monastery and threatened to shoot him. But he needed it, Porthos. It wasn’t about you. He was so messed up. He’d talked himself into knots, turned himself inside out trying to make sense of things. 

“The way he grew up, sometimes things just get twisted, for him. He doesn’t always understand how to care for people.”

“I know,” Porthos says, letting Athos put him to bed. 

Athos stays sitting with him, quietly telling him about shouting at Anne, at the regent, at everyone. Porthos drifts off with a small smile. Athos checks on Constance, but she’s downstairs with Ki, so he returns to the bedroom and settles in with a book. 

A week later, when Rochefort walks into the courtyard, Aramis shoots him. It goes perfectly, except they weren’t expecting Milady. Or rather, they were expecting her, and had planned for her. They just hadn’t planned for her shooting Athos. They’d thought she’d aim for Aramis. Athos is wide open, standing out the front to meet Rochefort. 

Rochefort falls, d’Artagnan leaping out to sink a knife into him to make doubly sure, and then there’s a second shot, and the world explodes. White heat, searing pain, a jumble of sounds, and then Athos passes quietly out to escape it all. He comes around a few times, but each time things are confused, tiring, painful. He can’t work out what’s happening. 

Then he wakes up and he recognises bed-sheets, recognises the shape of Porthos sitting in a chair near by, recognises the quiet of the estate, Constance humming, the soft warmth that Porthos’ magic always settles into the bones of a home. When the door opens, Athos expects Constance, so he doesn’t bother to look around. It’s Sylvie, though, who walks over to Porthos, setting a plate beside him. 

“Sorry. You can sit with him alone for a bit,” Porthos says. His voice is hoarse. He’s been crying. 

“You’re alright, Porthos. Relax. I’m no good at sitting still and keeping vigil. He knows that, won’t expect it of me,” Sylvie says. She laughs. “He’ll be surprised that I’m here. He might think he’s dying.”

“Am I?” Athos croaks. 

Porthos stares at him, then sinks deeper into the chair, lowering his head, and weeps. Sylvie comes to the bed and strokes his hair and sits on the edge, smiling at him. She ignores Porthos’ weeping. Which suggests this isn’t the first time he’s done it. Athos looks at Porthos again. 

“He’s alright, just tired. We’re all tired,” Sylvie says. “Bullet went right through your side, we had to remove your spleen. You’ve been lucky, though. She missed. Somehow.”

“On purpose,” Porthos whisper, sniffing hard. “Must’ve been on purpose. We didn’ catch ‘er.”

“Richelieu?” Athos mumbles, already falling back asleep. 

“Anne wrote him a letter, delivered by Aramis,” Sylvie says. “She’s a princess of Spain, and Louis’ sister is wife to the King of England. With the house of Bourbon entirely defected from Savoy, Richelieu is recognising his wisest course.”

“Bourbon?” Athos asks, wondering if he’s going to get some. 

“Gaston, Feron, and Lorraine,” Porthos says, chuckling. “I’ll get you something warm to drink, better’n bourbon. First, though, go to sleep. If you sleep, really sleep, maybe I can, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

Richelieu sweeps into the farm they’re using as headquarters for that week, a month after Athos is shot. Anne, Treville, Athos and Ninon Larroque are in a meeting to plan a raid on Savoy’s grain hoard when Richelieu strides into the room, two women at his back. 

“Cardinal,” Treville says, unsurprised. 

“Captain,” Richelieu says. “Or should I say regent?”

Richelieu bows, and then laughs. Treville gets to his feet , and they contemplate one another for long moments. Richelieu shrugs, smiling, and holds out his hands palm up. 

“What can I say?” Richelieu says. “It seemed a strategic choice. I saved Louis’ life, made sure Savoy didn’t execute him.”

“You also assassinated him,” Treville says.

“Ah, but we both know he was already dead, don’t we?” Richelieu says. 

“Excuse me?” Milady says, raising the veil that had covered her face and stepping forwards. 

“I am sorry, my dear,” Richelieu says. “I rather deceived you on that one.”

“I am not a forgiving man,” Treville says, ignoring Milady’s interruption.

“And we both know that’s a lie,” Richelieu says. 

Treville sighs and shakes his head, then huffs an irritated laugh and embraces Richelieu. 

“Good to see you, you old bastard,” Treville says. 

“You too,” Richelieu says. “Now, shall we discuss this absurd plan of yours to rid ourselves of that dreadful creature, Grimaud?”

“I’ll take these plans to Fleur,” Ninon says, retreating. 

“You’re leaving, too, Athos,” Treville says. “Take Marguerite to Porthos, and then stay there.”

“No,” Athos says, head jerking up. 

“Sylvie has requested it,” Treville says. “You are a pressure point for her, you can be used against her. You would be a wild card.”

“I’m going,” Athos says. “It’s in the plan. We agreed.”

“I need you elsewhere,” Treville says. “The plan will change anyway, with the Cardinal’s input.”

“We shouldn’t trust him,” Athos says. “We should make our own plans. With me in them.”

“No. Take Marguerite to Porthos, for safety, and then stay there,” Treville says. “It an order from your regent, signed by the queen. You sovereign commands you, comte.”

Athos storms out. Sylvie’s waiting for in, in the yard. They don’t speak, Athos is too angry. She kisses him, maneuvers him back into the house, up to the hallway. She presses him to a wall, and he lets her, gives in, gives himself up entirely. She takes him into one of the bedrooms and a twist of rope curls around his wrists, magic woven into them, holding him still. 

He wakes, later, sprawled across a mattress. Sylvie’s sat on the edge, brushing her hair, looking out of the window. She turns when he shifts, smiling at him. He reaches for her and she lies back at his side, letting his cup her cheek, thumb over her skin. The colour of it against his white hand warms him, somehow. 

“I need you to go,” Sylvie whispers. “I know you want to protect me, but you can’t. I need you to not be there. I need you to be safe. I can’t do this is you’re not. I have to know that whatever happens to me, you will be safe. With Porthos. Happy, one day. This mission is important, and I need to do it, but I might die. More than usual. I need…”

“Alright,” Athos says. “Okay. I won’t be happy, though. Never. Not without you.”

“That’s a lie,” Sylvie says. “I believe it is a lie.”

Athos hesitates, then he nods, giving her that. They lie together for a long time, and spend the day re-learning each other’s bodies, tangled in each other’s pleasure. When the sun begins to set, Athos gets himself up and washed and dressed, and then they cling to one another, just breathing. Sylvie pulls away first, turning to the window. 

“I love you,” Athos says. 

“I know.”

“You believe that I will be happy again,” Athos says. “I promise to be. I believe that you will come back. Return the favour?”

“I promise,” Sylvie says. 

Athos leaves her there, both of them clinging to their false-promises. He finds Marguerite waiting, two horses tacked up. They ride to the station in silence, Athos distracted with thoughts of Sylvie. 

It takes them three days to reach Porthos’ estate. They take a train, but are forced off when a patrol comes through, as Marguerite has no papers. They walk a few miles and jump onto a slow moving freight, riding for the next stretch of track. They have to walk the last twenty miles, again, and they arrive footsore, tired. Athos’ side is throbbing, his breathing harsh and strained, his stomach protesting. 

The house looks deserted. Athos hopes it’s just the blackouts and the quiet. He opens the back door carefully, and Porthos barrels out, forcing Athos to the ground. Athos groans as he hits the earth, pain ratcheting through him. 

“Bugger! Athos? Athos. I’m so sorry. Damn it! I wasn’t expecting you, what are you doing here? I thought you were going after Grimaud?”

“Got another mission. Bringing you someone who needs protection,” Athos wheezes. 

“Oh. Come on, up you get,” Porthos lifts Athos back to his feet and then holds him up until he steadies. 

“You’ve worked your lack of balance into your attack,” Athos says. “Nice.”

“Yeah, tripped right on top of you, didn’t I? Good aim,” Porthos says. “Come inside. Constance is asleep, had a bad day, but I’m still up. I’ll put something together to eat. Did you get the train?”

Athos gives Porthos a run down of their journey. Porthos leaves the lights off until they reach the kitchen, then he catches sight of Marguerite and heaves a huge sigh of relief, embracing her. 

“Thank god,” Porthos says. “Thank god. I hoped they’d bring you, but… does this mean Richelieu has finally got away? Is this why you’re not on the Grimaud thing, Athos?”

“Richelieu turned up late last night. Sylvie is why I am here rather than there,” Athos says. 

“Thank you,” Marguerite says. “Porthos, the Cardinal said that you paid him, to get me out. I’m so glad to be out of there.”

“You did real good,” Porthos says. “You were very brave.”

“I dared to do so little. I should have remained loyal to the queen,” Marguerite says. 

“You were Porthos’ contact in Rochefort’s house,” Athos realises. “No, that was brave of you. You gave us plenty.”

“Thank you,” Marguerite says. “Is Louis well? The king?”

Athos shifts, grimacing. 

“He’s well,” Porthos says, though, beaming. “Being looked after, safe, in England, by his aunt and uncle. Marguerite was his governess, when he was a babe, Ath. Now, you must both be starving, and exhausted. Food, then bed.”

Porthos feeds them, makes them something warm to drink, makes them both drink some water, and then sends Marguerite to one of the spare rooms. He takes Athos’ hand and leads him up to the attic bedroom, laying him down. Athos stiffens, not wanting to erase any of the memory of Sylvie, but Porthos just curls around him and holds him. Athos sighs, tears squeezing out. 

“That’ll be the herbs I added to your tea,” Porthos says, brushing a tear away. “Something for the pain I know you’re in. Rest, now. I’ve got you.”

Athos rests. He gets plenty more, in the days that follow. Porthos is trying to keep the house quiet, after the recent rush, so Athos and Marguerite are confined inside. Constance keeps Marguerite company, and Athos always seems to be welcome if he joins them, but he keeps to himself a lot. Brooding, and napping, and sorting through Porthos’ paper-work. Porthos comes and goes, bringing local news, and stories about Marie-Cessette. 

It’s four days before they hear anything. Porthos and Athos are taking a nap together, Porthos struggling to get out of bed today, when Constance come rushing into their room, making a distressed sound, wordless. She huddles against the wall by the bed and covers her face, shaking. Porthos gets out of bed and kneels in front of her, arm cradled to his bad side, squinting against a headache. 

“Don’t,” Athos says. “Don’t try to help her. It’ll hurt you.”

“Danger,” Constance whispers.

Porthos is on his feet and halfway out of the room before she finished. Athos is at his back. They gather weaponry as they move swiftly through the house, and they work together easily, as if no time has passed. They split up and circle to the front of the house. Sylvie’s there, standing by a car, hand pressed to her side, pale. Athos rushes forwards, forgetting caution, and supports her. 

“It went wrong,” Sylvie whispers. “I got away. Treville is dead.”

“No,” Porthos says. 

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie says. “They shot him. We can’t do anything. They’re coming.”

“Here?” Athos says. 

“We were betrayed,” Sylvie says. 

“Milady,” Athos curses. 

“Oh no,” Porthos says. “It’s my fault.”

“What?” Athos says. 

“Inside,” Sylvie says. 

“You’re hurt,” Athos says, helping her to the house. 

Porthos doesn’t follow. Athos takes Sylvie to the kitchen and helps her sit, helps her out of her jumper and shirt. There’s blood, at her side. Athos grits his teeth, and pulls her up, guiding her to the downstairs bedroom, helping onto the bed. He removed her bra, and helps her lay on her front. 

“I need to get water,” Athos whispers, voice coming out hoarse.

Sylvie reaches for his hand, closing her eyes. So Athos stays. He sits on the edge of the bed, and tries to ease some of her pain. Porthos comes in, with a bowl and cloths. He gasps when he sees the knife wound. He goes to get herbs, more water, softer cloths, bandages. Athos cleans the blood and grime away, and disinfects, working as carefully as he can. 

“It weren’t Milady who told,” Porthos whispers, shifting about, hands working, twisting together. “It was Charon.”

“How could Charon have known anything?” Athos says. 

“I told him,” Porthos says. “Him and Flea have their own networks and connections that I’ve been using. Charon and I drank together, sometimes.”

“You got drunk,” Athos says, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. 

“No,” Porthos says. “All I told him was we were gonna bring Grimaud down. It would have been enough, for Grimaud to put the pieces together and work it out. Knowing we were after ‘im.”

“Why did you tell Charon anything?” Athos snaps. “Look at this. Look what you’ve done! And now this safe house is burnt. We need to go, move before they arrive. Get rid of anything and everything, and prepare to leave. When Sylvie’s able, we’re going.”

Porthos retreats. Athos finishes Sylvie’s side and covers her with a clean shirt that’s drying on the radiator in the room. 

“It’s not Porthos’ fault,” Sylvie murmurs. “Intelligence is always going to be uncertain. He’s got to give to receive. He misjudged, but it’s not his fault he’s not infallible.”

“You got hurt,” Athos says, stubbornly. 

“I know you don’t think it’s Porthos’ fault. I’ve seen you and Aramis together, remember.”

“That was different,” Athos says, at once. “Aramis got distracted. Porthos was careless with information that should not have passed his lips, not for anything.”

“I can move,” Sylvie says. “I think we should set a trap. Grimaud will burn the house down, with an explosion. If we can find the place he’s likely to watch from, we might get him alone.”

“We’re both injured, Porthos is useless,” Athos says. “What are we going to do?”

“Kill him,” Sylvie says. “Use a knife. Take him by surprise.”

Porthos comes back ten minutes later, Constance tucked into his side. He stands in the doorway while Athos helps Sylvie up. He won’t look at Athos at all. 

“We’re going to ambush Grimaud,” Sylvie says. 

“No we’re not,” Athos says. 

“Ath, take Constance and Sylvie to the village. Keep drivin’, and you’ll reach a small track with a yellow post box at the end. Turn right and follow it all the way down. That’s Elodie’s, she’ll keep you safe till I can come get you,” Porthos says. “She’ll hide the car, too. Tell her that I am needed, and that I need her. These words. Porthos is needed, Porthos needs you. Just that. If I’m not there by morning, she’ll leave Marie-Cessette with you and come to get me. Or me body,” Porthos says, muttering the last. 

“What are you doing?” Athos asks. 

“Sylvie’s idea. I know where he’ll watch from, and I know how to make sure he’s on his own. Now go.”

“Porthos, you’ll die,” Sylvie says. 

“People have said that before,” Porthos says, gravely. “And here I am. You already gave Athos to my care, thinking you might not come back. Now it’s my turn. You look after ‘im, okay? He needs a lot of looking after, sometimes. He’ll look after you back. Ath, I know that you don’t blame me for this. Okay? That’ll be important to you some day. I know what you think of me and how you feel about me. Never ever doubt that.”

“I’ll stay,” Athos says. 

“No,” Porthos says, grimacing. “You can’t. I’m gonna try somethin’ out, and I don’t know… you’ve all got magic.”

“You’re going to take his magic,” Athos realises. 

“No point bein’ a secret anymore, is it? There’s nothin’ to protect.”

“Except yourself,” Athos says. 

“You guys protect each other, keep each other safe. I’ll look to myself. I know how to do that. You need to go now. Go!”

Athos goes. He knows he’ll never forgive himself, but he leaves Porthos there, alone in that house, and he takes Constance and Sylvie to the house Porthos told him. He forgets Marguerite, mind fugged by worry for Sylvie, who flags, exhaustion and pain turning her breathing harsh. Worry for Porthos. 

Elodie is a bit of a surprise. She’s capable and down to earth, takes everything as it comes, with humour. Her daughter is a happy child. Elodie puts them all to bed, including the baby. Athos wants to go back to Porthos, to help, but Elodie talks him out of it. She sits up with him, when he refuses to sleep. He sits with Sylvie until she falls into a deep, restful sleep, and they go to sit at the back of the house. Athos looks the direction of Porthos’ estate, and waits. 

“If his spells don’t work, he’ll use elemental magic, won’t he?” Elodie says. 

“Yes,” Athos says. “He’ll use it. He’s got a lot of control, for an untrained elemental, but he TBI means that there’s always the chance-”

Athos is cut off by an explosion. A bellow of smoke and fire leaps into the sky. Constance starts to scream inside, and wakes the baby, and Sylvie. Athos stares at the fire. Elodie touches his shoulder. 

“Stay here for two minutes,” Elodie says, running into the house. 

She comes back with a bow and arrow, a belt of knives strapped to her hips, two pistols under her arm, a rifle slung over her shoulder. She gives Athos the rifle and pistols, and they run. The run because they pushed the car away and emptied its tank. They run because Elodie has no horses. They run because they need to be there, now, and they are not. 

Elodie drag him off the road just before the village and breaks into a barn, for two horses. They ride hard, another explosion ripping through the night. There’s nothing left of the house, and Athos yells, a sob tearing at his throat, pulling his horse around, searching the fire and rubble. 

“Up there!” Elodie shouts, pointing to the hill, the barn. 

They ride, Elodie letting go her reins to knock an arrow, drawing the string taut. She rides right past the barn and lets it fly. Athos leaps from his horse and runs. Grimaud has an arrow in his back, blood pouring over his face, but he’s on his feet and magic is crackling along his arm. Porthos is slumped on the ground. 

Athos yells and draws his pistol and a sword, charging at Grimaud. They meet and grapple, knocking weapons aside, hitting and scratching and gouging. Athos yells in pain at Grimaud gets a boot into Athos’ injured side, and Porthos comes off the ground, eerily silent, eyes shut and swollen with blood. Porthos draws in a breath, and roars. 

The magic is torn from Athos, from Grimaud. Athos screams in pain. Porthos roars again and fire leaps up around them, hay and wood catching. Athos can just make out Elodie, still horsed, lit by the flames. She calls, and her arrow, ready, burns suddenly silver. It buries itself next to the other, in Grimaud, and he falls. Water pours from the wound with blood, and Porthos roars again. The water floods, quenching the flames, surrounding them, drowning them. 

And then it’s gone. Porthos collapses back to the earth, Athos’ magic comes back in a rush, and the fire and the water is gone. Athos drags himself to Grimaud’s body, and finds no pulse. He goes to Porthos, next, and lies beside him, finding his neck. 

“He’s alive,” Athos croaks.

“He’d damn well better be,” Elodie snaps. “Get him up, comte.”

Athos sucks in a breath and gets to his own feet, then uses his magic to get Porthos onto the saddle in front of Elodie. It’s weak, and comes slowly. Athos mounts his own horse and they ride back in silence. 

“Your bow,” Athos manages, as they approach Elodie’s farm. 

“I have my own magic,” Elodie says. “Porthos used elements for the trick with the water.”

Athos nods, and falls from his horse. Constance comes running from the house, Sylvie on her heels, Marguerite behind them both. Marguerite has Marie-Cessette. They’re helped inside, and Marguerite and Constance see to their hurts. Athos falls asleep. When he wakes, and sits up, everyone is still there. Sylvie is stretched on her front beside him, Constance is sat on the next bed, holding Porthos’ hand. Elodie is bustling around with medical supplies. Marguerite is sat with the baby. Marguerite sees him watching her and meets his eyes. 

“I ran. When I saw Sylvie, I was afraid,” Marguerite says. “I saw you all leaving, and followed Porthos up the hill. I helped him set his trap up, and then I ran again. I meant to leave entirely, but I found my way here. You were gone again, but Constance needed help with the baby, so I stayed.”

“That was brave of you,” Athos says. He’s hoarse, and his throat hurts. 

“Porthos is okay,” Constance says, sounding miserable. Elodie goes to rub Constance’s back. “He’s going to be okay.”

“He’s going to be just fine,” Elodie says. “If he wakes, he’ll be fine. There’s no reason to think he won’t wake.”

“”He’s hurt,” Constance says. “All burnt.”

“Just his shoulder,” Elodie soothes. “It’s not bad. He’ll heal just fine.”

“His eyes,” Constance says. 

“It’s just from where he was hit. That, too, will heal,” Elodie says. 

“I’ll go get him something to eat,” Constance says. 

Elodie comes and sits beside Athos, sighing. 

“How is he, really?” Athos asks. “And Sylvie?”

“She’s got a fever, but I think it’s exhaustion, not infection. Porthos really will be okay, the burn’s second degree and small. I’m a little worried about his eyes. The blood vessels are burst. I’ve done what I can, and I think the man Porthos calls ‘Ari’ can probably heal it, but he might lose some sight in the right eye.”

“He’ll be able to live with that,” Athos says. “He’ll be alive. It’s good enough.”

“I didn’t know he was that powerful,” Elodie says. 

“He’s more,” Athos says. “He’s got more depth than anyone I’ve ever come across. I am probably more skilled at wielding word, and manipulating magic. Aramis is far far better at healing physical hurts. But Porthos’ magic is linked to his emotion, and- well. You’ve met the man.”

They sit together in silence, for a while. Athos remembers, suddenly, the things he said to Porthos before they parted. Then he remembers Porthos telling him that he knows. Always knows. Athos relaxes back into the bed. Sylvie’s at his side, he can hear Porthos breathing. Marguerite is talking quietly with the baby. Constance and Elodie talk together, when Constance returns. 

They’ve won this battle, for now. Athos sleeps.


	6. Chapter 6

hen they’re all well enough, he takes Sylvie, Elodie, Porthos, Constance, Marie-Cessette, and leaves. They go to England, and Porthos buys them a house in the middle of nowhere and starts working on the garden. d’Artagnan and Aramis show up, with Louis, two months later. 

“Spain has acknowledged Anne as regent, and her government as opposition and legitimate representative of France,” Aramis tells them. “She’s asked me to be a minister, in the interim while Savoy is removed from power. She will call an election, after that.”

“France will be like England? With a parliament, and a monarch?” Athos asks. 

“For the first few years, yes. Anne wants to step down as monarch, and help the country transition to a republic,” Aramis says. “She and Richelieu have both offered Porthos positions.”

“Me?” Porthos asks, head coming up slowly from where he’s been drawing. 

His sight’s getting better, but he’s still mostly blind. The doctor’s they’ve seen suspect that he’ll never regain all the sight in his right eye, but they’re hopeful about his left and partial recovery. Porthos doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t mind anything much, at the moment. He’s slow and confused a lot of the time, mind struggling to grasp things. 

“Richelieu is impressed with your strategizing, Anne wants you to consult on the process of becoming a republic,” Aramis says. 

Constance and d’Artagnan come in with Louis and Marie-Cessette, and Constance starts fussing around about lunch, so Porthos gets up and limps over to help her. 

“I think he’d prefer to stay with us,” Sylvie says, smiling. “Especially when he hears my news. I’ve been waiting, for d’Artagnan and Aramis to arrive, to tell you all together.”

Athos beams, and calls Porthos and Constance over. Elodie comes running in, scooping up Marie and sitting next to Sylvie. 

“Did you tell them yet? Did I miss it?” Elodie asks. 

“No,” Sylvie says. “I’m about to. Everyone, I’m pregnant.”

Athos nods, laughing. Porthos looks hurt, for a moment, and Athos knows that he’s going to have to talk to Porthos and assure him that Porthos can be part of the child’s life. That they’re all family. That it won’t mean Porthos will be cut out of things. Then Porthos lights up and chuckles, low and happy, reaching over to ruffle Athos’ hair and then squeeze his neck. 

“I’m terrified,” Athos says. “And elated.”

“You’ll be wonderful parents,” d’Artagnan says. “I’ve got some news, as well. I’ve bought the house next door, if Constance decides she wants her own space. I’m staying in England. Here, actually. With you guys.”

“Yay,” Constance says. “We’re going to get married.”

“Not yet, though,” d’Artagnan says quickly. “In two years. I’m going to get a job, first, and we’ll settle and heal some more.”

“Anyone else got news?” Porthos asks. 

“I need a poo,” Louis announces. 

He covers his mouth and giggles, then runs off, leaving them all laughing.


End file.
